


Lucky

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Retirement!lock, Retirementlock, Weight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 08:44:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Greg are in their golden years, but Mycroft doesn't feel very golden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> Another (very late) tumblr request.

Mycroft scowled down at the scale, pushing his stomach out of the way as he did so. He saw the number, and sighed loudly, a strand of half-auburn, half-white hair falling down onto his forehead. He blew it off, annoyed, and stepped off the scale, disappointed. In the twenty years he and Greg had been married, he’d been on several diets, managing to stay fairly slim for most of their marriage. Lately, however, since retiring from what Greg fondly called the ‘government death trap’, he’d taken up eating when he was bored, causing a significant amount of weight gain, as he didn’t exercise half as often as he did before. 

He sighed, sneering at his reflection in the mirror and attempting to ignore the fat jiggling around his middle as he stepped off the scale. He wondered if Greg was still attracted to him; their sex life had drastically increased after both their retirements (along with silly things, like taking bike rides together and trips to the park to play chess and feed the birds), and then plateaued. Sometimes, he caught the other ogling the latest piece of meat on the telly for just a moment too long, and admittedly, it didn’t help. He despised the way he looked now, but his joints were old, stiff; he couldn’t very well take up a new exercise regimen now. 

Mycroft sighed again and pulled his jumper back on, running a hand through his thinning hair; at least he still had that, he thought fondly. Greg had always been fond of his hair, and the dreaded freckles that covered his body. Although, now, he wondered if half of the freckles were actually that, and not liver spots or some other sign of him aging much faster than he would have liked.

He exited the loo, rubbing a hand over his large belly; he was hungry again, damn. It seemed he always was, now. “I shouldn’t be,” he thought as he made a trip to the kitchen. “My metabolism is supposed to be slowing down…”

“Oi, sunshine.” A voice interrupted his thoughts, and he turned his head, naturally relaxing at the sight of Greg, leaning against the counter and drinking his coffee, as he did most of the time nowadays, even though it drove Mycroft mad to have Greg’s arse where he prepared their food. “Not like you don’t lick it often enough anyway,” he remembered his husband remarking. A smile graced his thin lips at the memory, and he chuckled softly. “Get off the counter,” came the practiced reply, “I don’t feel like cleaning it off after you’ve finished sitting and doing god knows what else on it.”

Greg grinned, and slid off the granite countertop, bare feet coming into contact with the tile. “Big baby,” he replied, such a practiced routine. “Mhm, keep being rude to the one who makes your dinners,” Mycroft said playfully, reaching out to tuck a strand of light grey hair behind Greg’s ear. The other man had aged far better than he had, with wrinkles in the correct places, making him look weathered and sophisticated instead of old and frail. Greg always told him that he looked better, but Mycroft never believed it. 

“What’re you doing here? Hungry?” Greg asked, reaching out to mimic Mycroft’s earlier gesture. Mycroft blushed lightly, then shrugged; god, even after all this time, Greg could give him butterflies. “Why else does one go into a kitchen?” Mycroft replied, enjoying the banter. “Well, last time you came into the kitchen before lunch, I wound up getting spunk on your sink.” He smirked, clearly enjoying the flustered look that came to Mycroft’s face after the remark. “C’mon, I’ll make you something.”

“I don’t need to eat,” Mycroft replied, a fraction of a second too quickly. “I’m fine.”

“Oi, no husband of mine will go without food when I rarely offer it.”

“I guess we’re getting divorced then.”

“I get half of everything.”

“I get the cat.”

“Fine, take him. Mean old bastard.”

Mycroft laughed at that; their cat actually was a crotchety old bastard, but he figured the feline fit right in with them. “Now who’s being a baby, dearest?”

“Still you,” Greg chuckled, “C’mon, let me make you a little something.” He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s waist, resting his chin on his chest. He looked up at Mycroft with those big, brown, puppy-dog eyes that he couldn’t resist. Mycroft blushed at the contact on his belly, and leaned down to kiss Greg’s nose. “I’m fine.” He murmured, “I’m too fat anyway.”

“You’re not fat.”

“I am. It’s not attractive.”

“Oi,” Greg reached up to cup Mycroft’s face, keeping the younger man’s eyes on him. “One, you’re not fat. Two, fat and attractive are not mutually exclusive terms. Three, and this is a big one, you’re all mine, you hear? Every inch and every pound is mine.” He gave Mycroft’s slightly chubby cheeks a pinch for emphasis. “Mine to play with, and mine to love. Understand?”

Mycroft smiled fondly at his husband, giving him a soft kiss on the lips. “How did I end up with such a wonderful man,” he mused quietly, “And what did I do to deserve you?”

“Dunno, ask God when he sends us down to hell for all the shit we’ve gotten into,” Greg laughed, leaning up to kiss Mycroft’s soft lips again, another giggle escaping him. 

“Thank you for reminding me that we should go to church next Sunday.” Mycroft smirked. 

“Ah god,” the older man dropped his head against Mycroft’s chest, his pout evident in his voice. “You did that on purpose.”

“I do everything on purpose,” Mycroft laughed, “You just have bad luck.”

Greg lifted his head, grinned, and shook it slowly. 

“What?” Mycroft cocked his head, confused.

“I don’t have bad luck,” he grinned, “I wound up with you, didn’t I?”

For the first time in a long time, Mycroft didn’t blush.


End file.
